


River King

by ananiah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Elementals AU, Gen, John is starting to hate precious gems, Mycroft has read the Silmarillion and sees alarming parallels to his own life, Post-Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock sometimes hums Madonna without realizing, Vague Johnlock and Mystrade in the distance, casefic, sherlock is water and john is fire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ananiah/pseuds/ananiah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The drowning of a geneticist draws Sherlock and John into a tangled web of missing jewels, mysterious drownings, and stories that deserve good, old-fashioned villains. And who's this guy named Jim Moriarty? Almost a modern-day ATLA AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blue Problem, Part I

Sherlock stretched his hand towards the kitchen, eyes fixed on his computer. A thin stream of water splashed from the sink to hover over Sherlock's outstretched palm. He sipped the water absently, and John rolled his eyes.

"You couldn't just get up and get a glass of water?"

"Clearly not," Sherlock drawled. "The kitchen is all the way over there."

John shrugged. "You could've asked me. I was going in there for some tea." With a grunt, John got up from his comfy chair and went into the kitchen. He put on the kettle and started rummaging around in the cabinets for some biscuits. "You're getting lazier every day."

Sherlock sat up straighter and turned around to look at John, setting the computer down on the end table. "Me? Lazy? John, have you even seen the amount of casework I've been doing? Piles and piles..." Sherlock trailed off, muttering to himself. He slumped into his chair and blue coat until he was practically buried in them both.

"Phone for you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.

Sherlock sent the water back into the kitchen with a hasty flick of his wrist and shouted back, "Well, bring it up, then!"

"No need to be so rude, I'm just coming upstairs now..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off, and John could hear her plodding up the steps from the apartment below. "Here you are, dear."

Sherlock grabbed the phone and asked, "Yes?" without another word to Mrs. Hudson. "Not now, Lestrade, I'm busy with another case–" Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Say that again," he said, getting up from the chair and fixing his coat. "I'll be over there shortly."

He pulled on his scarf and demanded, "Well, John, are you coming?"

"Yes, yes..." John shot a lingering glance back at the teapot and started for the door.

Sherlock wordlessly hung up the phone and pressed it into Mrs. Hudson's arms. "The game is on, John."

"What game is it, exactly?" John asked as he trudged down the stairs.

"I'll tell you in the cab." Sherlock opened the front door and stepped into the street, waving his arm.

"Good luck on your new case, dears!" Mrs. Hudson called from the door before closing it behind them.

Sherlock shooed John into the cab and shot one look at the cabbie before saying, "There's been a murder down in Bexley."

"Ah, right." John nodded to himself.

"Mr. Andrew Meyers, a noted geneticist, was found in a river a quarter mile from his car, which was parked in a back alley and filled with water." Sherlock gazed out the window at the city zooming by.

John stared at Sherlock. "So... why did Lestrade call you in?"

The consulting detective turned his distant gaze on John. "They think the murderer was a water elemental."

"A...?" John's mouth fell open, but he closed it quickly. "Are there any suspects?"

"I'll know when I get there," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Of course you will."

* * *

By the Thames, John wished he'd brought his jumper. The cool autumn breeze swept up the river and through the streets of London, tugging at his clothes. He was almost–almost–tempted to use his powers then, to call up just a few sparks of fire, but he couldn't, especially not in the middle of London.

Sherlock and Lestrade both knelt by the body. "John, care to make any observations?" Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade sighed. "Why not? I can't possibly get in any more trouble than from letting you into the crime scene. Why not him too?"

Ignoring Lestrade, John trudged over and stared at the sand-crusted body. "He's a scientist, isn't he? At–"

"Blakeford Labs," Sherlock interjected. "It says so on his nametag."

"Thanks, Sherlock," John said only half-sarcastically. "Isn't that a–"

"Genetics lab," the detective interrupted again. "It's just a few minutes away from here."

John huffed, "Why am I even saying anything? Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"On the contrary, John. Do continue." Sherlock walked around to John's side of the corpse. "What do you see?"

"Well..." John bent over the body to observe it closer. "Mmm. Drowned, definitely."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock smiled, clearly amused. Lestrade just rolled his eyes.

John obliged his friend and continued, trying to think like Sherlock. It was harder than it sounded. "Only a couple hours ago, so... he was murdered around when he got out of work, at five. Seeing as it's seven now."

"Yes, clearly. So whoever killed him knows where he works, when he gets out, how he comes home–as his car was found halfway between his home and the lab–and the perfect spot to commit murder. Close to the river, and far from anywhere useful." Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up, and John suppressed an urge to groan.  _Again_  with the coat collar.

The detective continued on, oblivious. "I'll have to see the car now. I've learned all I can from here."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. "Because after this, I'm giving him to Molly."

"Yes, yes, quite sure," Sherlock replied, waving one hand carelessly at the inspector as he strode down the street.

John had to jog to catch up. "And you know where the car is, then?"

"Of course." Sherlock flagged down another cab. "I expect Donovan and Anderson will be there. Unfortunately. I can only hope I get there before they make a mess of things."

They rode in silence to the other crime scene, with Sherlock completely absorbed in thought. John wondered exactly what was running through his friend's mind. Usually, it was some impossible trail of clues that only Sherlock could have put together. Usually, it was something utterly brilliant.

It would have surprised them both to learn it was "Material Girl" by Madonna.

* * *

"That car is... full of water," John said at last, staring at the small 2005 Corolla sitting in the road.

"Yes it is," Sherlock murmured, pacing around the car. "Not a single drop on the outside."

"How do you suppose it got in there? How do you suppose it's staying in there?" John asked, peering into the murky car window. Not a single bubble disturbed the water filling the car, and everything around the car was perfectly dry.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. "A water elemental, obviously. No one else could've done it. There's no water seeping through the cracks, which means this elemental is powerful. They'd have to exert their powers over this water for a long time, probably from a distance..."

"And I suppose you're some kind of expert?" Anderson asked skeptically.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Sherlock asked sharply. "Your presence makes it extremely hard for me to concentrate."

Anderson raised one eyebrow. "We know everything we possibly can know based off this car, and there isn't anything you can tell us that we don't already—"

"Anderson, drive Donovan back to Scotland Yard, why don't you? Maybe then I'll actually be able to think." Sherlock turned his back on Anderson.

"That might work when Inspector Lestrade is here—" Donovan began.

"—Which he is," Lestrade interjected, slamming his car door shut. "You to go back to the station. I'll join you in a bit."

The two left sullenly, and John was rather glad to see them go.

Sherlock flicked his fingers at the car after Donovan and Anderson were out of view, and the car window rolled down. John supposed that Sherlock had used the water inside the car to control the window.

The rest of the water stayed in the car obediently as Sherlock reached into it. "Aha!" he cried triumphantly.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. The usually indifferent inspector had always been impressed by Sherlock's powers over water, and that never failed to amuse John.

"A note." Sherlock rolled the window back up, a piece of paper clenched in one hand. "It was stuck between the passenger's seat and the center console. Clearly our murdered man shoved it there without thinking, judging by the crumple patterns."

The paper was perfectly dry, and the ink hadn't run, even though the note had been in the water.

"Well, what does it say?" Lestrade demanded impatiently.

" _Thanks for everything_ ," Sherlock read aloud.

John tentatively took the note from his friend and smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper. "When did it get there?"

"Probably just before the murder. Judging by the skid marks over here..." Sherlock paced away from the crime scene and towards the main road, peering out into the oncoming traffic. "Mmm, definitely. When he left work."

"How do you know that?" John handed the note to Lestrade.

"When else could he have gotten murdered?" Sherlock rejoined them at the car and announced, "We're going to the lab now."

"Oh, I see. Am I your taxi service now?" Lestrade asked, but he caved under Sherlock's intense gaze. "All right then, let's go."

* * *

Sherlock jumped out of the car and strode into the building without waiting for John or Lestrade.

"You can't go in there yet, Sher– Oh, damn." Lestrade slammed the car door shut, following suit. John had to scramble in behind them, still trying to pull his white knitted jumper over his head.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. He finally caught up with the consulting detective and said much more softly, "You can't go in until the other investigators have had their turn."

Sherlock sighed, his whole body expressing scorn and weariness with people in general. "It'll take five minutes. I'll be in and out in no time." He offered Lestrade a very  _Sherlock_  smile, which was perfectly insincere. "What are you waiting for, John?"

"Right," John said, having finally sorted out the jumper. "Let's go, then."

Sherlock approached the front desk purposefully. "Hello, the name's Sherlock Holmes. My partner and I are from Scotland Yard. We're here investigating the murder of Andrew Meyers. We're just going to look around, ask a few questions... nothing too intrusive." Sherlock offered the receptionist one of his signature insincere smiles.

"Oh, well... I suppose that's all right. Can I see some identification?" the woman asked.

Sherlock obligingly pulled out an ID badge nicked from Lestrade and flashed her the picture. Then he pulled out another one that had John's face on it, and showed her that one as well. John tried not to look surprised and instead attempted going for a  _Detective Inspector John Watson_  kind of face.

"Okay, go ahead," the receptionist said, waving them both in. John glanced back and saw Lestrade sitting on the steps, his head in his hands, probably crying in despair.

Sherlock shot John a grin and strode briskly into the lab, long coat flowing behind him. "All right, who should we talk to first?"

"Are you asking me? Oh, um... coworkers, maybe?" he ventured. "Maybe it was one of them."

The consulting detective stopped short at the lift and pressed the  _down_  button. He was silent until the two of them had entered the elevator. Then he glanced down the row of floor numbers and asserted, "Nope, no, definitely not."

"How are you so sure?" John asked. "Haven't you heard of workplace competition?"

"John, it's obvious. Look at the floor numbers. Genetic research." Sherlock looked like whatever deduction he'd made was obvious. "Genetic research?" he repeated, one eyebrow raised.

John shrugged helplessly. "There isn't workplace competition in genetics research...?"

"Gah. This firm does work in... you know." For the first time, Sherlock looked actually uncomfortable, and he finished somewhat hesitantly, "Research on elementals."

Instinctively, John clenched his hands, feeling fire crackling under his skin. "Right. Then it couldn't have been any of them, since a water elemental killed Meyers," he said slowly, trying to keep his temper under control.

"Precisely." Sherlock's cool gaze never wavered from the elevator doors. "The real question is... who did he experiment on?"

John nodded, consciously relaxing his hands.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and Sherlock walked onto the floor like he belonged there. John sort of shuffled in behind the consulting detective, trying to act inconspicuous.

A scientist stood right outside the doors, presumably waiting for the lift, and Sherlock pounced on her.

"Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Holmes, and this is my partner Watson. Could you point me to the lab where Dr. Meyers worked?" Sherlock asked, looking the very picture of innocence. John wanted to stab him.

The scientist blinked. "Has something happened to Andrew?" she inquired. "I haven't seen the news today."

Rather than let Sherlock explain, John interrupted, "He was murdered last night when he left the lab–"

"Very unfortunate, yes," Sherlock continued brazenly. "Now, if you could–"

"Oh my god, that's awful!" the woman exclaimed. "I can't believe it. How did he die?"

"Drowned. Probably. The lab if you w–"

John shot an angry glare at Sherlock. "That's what we're trying to find out. So it's really important that we look around a bit in his lab. Can you point us in that direction?"

"O-of course. It's down that way," she answered, pointing to the left. "I hope you catch whoever did it."

"We will, I assure you," Sherlock said, grabbing John by the sleeve of his jumper and dragging him down the hall.

"Stop that," John hissed, swatting Sherlock away. "Thanks for your help!" he called after the scientist before turning to his friend. "Sherlock, we really have to work on your people skills, because that back there was–"

"Not good?" Sherlock looked a bit put out, mostly for John's benefit.

"A bit not good, yeah," John agreed. "Let's shoot for fifty percent business, fifty percent empathy."

Sherlock pulled up his collar and shoved his hands in his coat pocket. "Mhmm." Then he shouldered the lab door open. "Alright, first person who tells me anything of use doesn't get arrested!"

"He's joking. Or trying to, at least," John amended.

There were only three people in the lab, thankfully for the reputation of Scotland Yard. John had no actual idea of what any of them were doing, having a limited knowledge of research science and genetics.

"You with the glasses," Sherlock said after a long, awkward moment. "Do you know what Meyers was doing yesterday?"

The man seemed to shrink away from Sherlock. "Well, he wasn't doing anything. His test subject kind of escaped a few days ago. What happened to him?"

"Dead. Now, about that test subject..." Sherlock caught a glare from John. "It was very unfortunate, and any information you could offer us about his test subject would facilitate the investigation process."

"Well," one of the man's co-workers said, "You know all our subjects are convicted criminals. He had the strongest powers–he was a water elemental–and he... he loved playing mind games. You could never tell what he was going to do next."

The first scientist nodded. "I'm not surprised that he got out."

"And, um, what's his name?" John asked.

The second scientist answered quietly, as if she were afraid of the name, "Jim Moriarty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys; this is your author speaking; I can't make any promises as to when this updates, but be assured that it will, probably once a week. More fun cases and references to canon/new series Sherlock to come 8D
> 
> And please review, it would make my day all the better :3
> 
> Beta edited by the fantastic Athena'sDragon and cross-posted on ff.n.


	2. The Blue Problem, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in a world where Sherlock solved A Scandal in Bohemia (not Belgravia) before he met John, and where Moriarty hasn’t had the opportunity to do anything nefarious until now. So the cases he and John have solved are like “The Blue Carbuncle” and “The Gloria Scott.” Shoulda mentioned that earlier.

"Take me to see the others," Sherlock said without hesitation. "I'm assuming there are others."

"Y-yes, of course," the first scientist replied, taking a ring of keys from his belt. "Right this way."

John almost didn't follow the man down the lab's dark, twisting hallway that contrasted so sharply with the lab's crisp white interior. It wasn't just creepy, it was terrifying. Worse than Afghanistan.

Sherlock, however, didn't glance back once. John could just see the tail end of his coat disappearing around the corner, so he ran down the hall after the detective.

The scientist led them further below the streets of London to a vaguely grimy white room lit by one light bulb. There were four doors set into the far wall, each one bearing a large, black number.

John approached the first door hesitantly, running his fingers over the number raised from the metal:

**01**

"That was his," the scientist whispered almost reverentially. Then, in his normal voice, he added, "Two is an earth elemental, Three is a fire elemental, and Four is an air elemental. They're all criminals, convicted of one crime or another. Who do you want to talk to first, Inspectors?"

A sly smile crossed Sherlock's face that the scientist couldn't see. "The fire elemental, if you would."

"Two–that is, Sebastian Moran–used to be in the army, so I'd be careful if I were you," the man warned.

"I know how to handle army men," Sherlock answered confidently. "John, do you want to come?"

"I'll go, yeah," John said, voice infinitely less confident. Another fire elemental? He couldn't even remember hearing of another like him, except in history books. John hesitantly joined Sherlock at the door.

The scientist unlocked the door for them, pushing it open and saying, "I'll leave you to it. Five minutes?"

"Yes, perfect," Sherlock said, eyes already fixed intently upon the fire elemental. He went into the room like a predator, followed closely by John, who almost tripped over his own feet.

Moran paid Sherlock no attention. He sat at a metal table under the flourescent lights lining the top of the room, eyes bright and more than a little crazed. The room around Moran was reasonably clean, despite a few scorch marks, but the man was not. His tangled hair and sallow skin made him look less than human, and John had a sinking feeling that Moran had not left in a very long time.

"You," he accused, staring at John. "You're like me."

"What do you mean?" John asked. "I'm nothing like you." The lie, worn by time, rolled easily off his tongue.

"You can't fool me," Moran laughed, the sound harsh and rough. "I can smell the fire on you."

John clenched his hands. "Either way, I'm nothing like you."

"Well, after you've had your nice little chat, I'd like to get down to business," Sherlock said, voice chipper. When Moran's attention returned to him, he continued, "Tell me about this Jim Moriarty."

Moran's mouth snapped closed. "Jim? Well, Jim's like you. In every way."

"Every way?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised. John really wished he could do that, the single eyebrow. With him, it was both, or he just ended up making faces.

"Stop pretending. You're water, he's fire." Moran leaned in close to them, his long, greasy hair brushing the table. "The only difference is that they don't know what you are."

Sherlock sat down in the chair across from Moran and kicked his feet up on the table. "Moriarty. Tell me more."

"You'd be better off asking Milverton, you know. Milverton knows everything about everyone." A hint of fear and awe crept into Moran's voice. "Everything."

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter. "Everything?"

"Milverton knows everything." Moran's eyes flicked towards the wall to his right. "I can't say more. Not to you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried visibly to not sigh in exasperation. "Okay, John. Let's pay a visit to this Milverton."

"Right." John lingered for a moment, staring at the walls of Moran's room, scorched black with flame. "Let's go."

"I can't say more," Moran whispered when Sherlock had left. John beat a hasty retreat, almost bumping into Sherlock and the scientist on the way out.

"Here's the thing about Milverton," the scientist was telling Sherlock. "He's a slippery, slimy, dirty, rotten son of a bitch. No exaggeration. Watch your back. You know, that goes for all of them, actually."

"We'll be out in five minutes," Sherlock said, holding the door open for John.

Before the door had even closed, the man sitting in the same spot as Moran had taken off his glasses. They were thin and gold-rimmed, incongruous with the dimly lit room.

"Mister Sherlock Holmes," Milverton said, a faint smile on his lips.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Sherlock remarked conversationally.

"Ah, forgive me. I've heard so much about you, although you've doubtless heard nothing of me. My name is Charles Augustus Milverton." The earth elemental picked up his glasses and set them back down on his nose, eyes flat and dull behind the glass.

"Pleasure," Sherlock said. "Word is that you know everything."

"Moran told you that," Milverton sniffed. "Anyway... I'm assuming that there are things which you want to know. And they're available to you. For the right price of course." Milverton smiled like a snake.

John nudged Sherlock, who ignored John and sat down across from the earth elemental. "What kind of price?"

"Oh, nothing major. Just little secrets. Between you and I," Milverton added. "What do you want to know, Mr. Holmes?"

"Moriarty. Who is he?"

"Ah, Jim. He is a friend of mine. A very dear friend. So as you can imagine, the price would be... quite high." Milverton cast a glance at John and said, "Give me your friend, and I'll give you mine."

John hoped for Sherlock's sake that the detective wasn't even considering going along with Milverton.

"I've had enough of this," John muttered once the silence had lapsed on for too long. He tapped the table in front of Milverton and said sternly, "You're going to tell us what we want to know. No... prices, no conditions, nothing."

"And why would I do that?"

John didn't blink once. "Because otherwise, I'll burn you."

"You'll burn the heart out of me, won't you?" Milverton asked, as if the comment had amused him. "Unfortunately for you, I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"We'll find out either way," John muttered darkly.

The warm smell of campfire smoke filled the air, and Sherlock had the nerve to look amused. "Well, I think we're done here. Anything Milverton knows I can surely find out from whoever's behind door number four."

Milverton laughed. "Then you have a surprise waiting for you," he said.

Sherlock's expression became carefully neutral. "Let's go."

John lingered one moment to shoot an angry glare at Milverton, and then followed Sherlock out of the room. Without pause, Sherlock slammed Milverton's door shut and banged open the fourth door.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the woman inside shouted angrily. John craned his neck to get a better look at her.

"Irene?" Sherlock reeled backwards for a moment. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" the woman, Irene, demanded. "Waiting for rescue. I swear, all of these scientists must be bricks... Oh, who's that behind you?"

"Ah, Irene, this is John Watson. John, this is Irene, a... friend," Sherlock said at last. "I'd wondered where you'd gone."

"Clearly you didn't wonder enough," Irene accused. "What do you want now, Sherlock?"

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock stated. "Everything. We think he killed one of the scientists who worked here."

Irene looked thoughtful. "Mmm. I couldn't tell you very much about Jim. He wanted more than anything to escape, and revenge is certainly a dish he'd enjoy very much. Although if I weren't in here, I might be able to help you more..."

"I was breaking you out anyway," Sherlock said, casting a brief glance at John.

"Lips are sealed," John reassured his friend. "I assume you've got a plan."

"As a matter of fact, I have seven." Then Sherlock looked embarrassed for a moment and said, "Make that six."

"I don't even want to know," John muttered. "Which plan are we using, then?"

Sherlock shot one glance at Irene. "Vatican cameos. It's simplest, and we have two minutes, thirteen seconds before that scientist comes back in. Not enough time for... Anyway, the address is 221B Baker Street; you know how to get in."

Irene nodded once and flicked her wrist in one smooth motion at Sherlock.

John could just barely feel the whoosh of air across his skin before Sherlock jerked backwards, splaying across the floor.

"You missed," Sherlock complained.

"You didn't try to find me," Irene sighed. Then she backhanded Sherlock across the face and advised John, "Always call a girl back," before she knocked him unconscious too.

* * *

"Hey, John!" a familiar voice shouted. "Come on, wake up." It sounded a lot like Lestrade.

"L–?" John's mouth felt glued shut, and he blinked awake slowly.

"JOHN?!" Sherlock yelled from somewhere close by, jolting him out of sleep completely.

The first thing John saw when he opened his eyes was Sherlock's face mere inches from his own. "Morning, Sherlock..."

"JOHN, WE HAVE TO FIND IRENE!" Sherlock yelled, seemingly unaware of his volume.

"Keep it down will you?" John covered his ears and wished he could go back to sleep.

Lestrade snickered. "Apparently Miss Adler was more than Sherlock could handle," the detective inspector quipped. "He's been doing that for a half hour already."

"OH, SHUT UP, LESTRADE!" Sherlock bellowed. "I CAN HEAR JUST FINE."

"Stop shouting, then," John complained. "Inside voices, Sherlock."

"I AM TALKING AT A NORMAL VOLUME, JOHN. DON'T BE RIDICULOUS." Sherlock paused for a moment and then said, "ALRIGHT, SO MAYBE I DON'T KNOW WHAT VOLUME I'M TALKING AT. I'M SURE IT'LL WEAR OFF IN A FEW MINUTES."

John rubbed his eyes and sat up. "I think we should go back to the flat, you know, until you can talk without yelling."

"FINE, JOHN." Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but John knew he wasn't putting up as much fuss as usual. "I ALREADY TOLD LESTRADE EVERYTHING. I SUPPOSE HE CAN'T SCREW EVERYTHING UP IRREPARABLY. I'LL CALL A CAB."

"Pretty sure you already have," John muttered. He was sitting on a piece of particularly bumpy, sunny pavement, which did nothing to improve his mood. John rubbed the back of his head and joined Sherlock by the side of the road.

Once they were in the cab, Sherlock said in his normal voice, "That was easier than I thought."

"What? Did you just shout at everyone so you could leave early? You couldn't have, I don't know, asked to leave early?" John demanded, glaring at Sherlock.

"They would've wanted me to track Irene down, and I can't do that. Besides, yelling at them all was surprisingly therapeutic." Sherlock's smile had I Don't Care written all over it. "Especially yelling at Donovan."

John rolled his eyes at the detective. "I'm assuming we'll see your friend back at the flat," he said after a moment.

"And you assume correctly." Sherlock stared out the passenger side window. "Well, I'm fairly sure she'll be there. You never know with her."

"How is it that you've never mentioned her before?" John wondered. "She was obviously important to you."

"She never came up." Sherlock shrugged and resumed his deadpan stare out the window.

"So, how did you meet her?" John asked.

The detective didn't look away from the street. "A case. You might've read about it in the paper—a scandal in Bohemia."

"Oh, that was the one with the photograph, wasn't it?" John asked, struggling to remember. "Wait, so she's the opera singer from America?"

"Yes. I thought that was obvious. And here we are!" Sherlock kicked the cab door open and pushed the door open. "Irene?"

John followed Sherlock up into the flat. Everything looked exactly the same as when they'd left–or at least it did to John. Sherlock noticed something by the toaster in under fifteen seconds, despite never having actually been in the kitchen to John's knowledge. Except to get milk for his science experiments.

Sherlock beamed and said, "She said that Moriarty was most likely the murderer, and that she's going somewhere safe in the Middle East. Her idea of 'safe' was always a bit unusual."

"I'll say," John commented. "I don't suppose we'll be seeing any of her, then?"

"Probably not, why do you ask?" Sherlock shoved the note into his coat pocket and busied himself with picking up random things in the flat and checking underneath them.

"No reason. Anyway, are we going back to the lab?" John asked, idly nudging a few things around the coffee table.

"'Course not. We're going to see Molly," Sherlock said, as if it should've been obvious. "She has the corpse."

"But we already looked at the body," John pointed out.

"And the phone will ring in three, two, one..." Sherlock winked and snapped his fingers at the iPhone lying next to his laptop, which promptly began to ring.

"That's... bloody incredible," John muttered to himself as Sherlock picked up the phone.

The detective listened for a moment and nodded, forgetting that Molly couldn't see him. "John and I are just coming over now, Molly. See you in a few."

"What did Molly find out?" John asked as they left the flat again.

Sherlock flagged down another cab and didn't speak until they were on their way. "She didn't say."

"Oh, alright, then." John looked out the window and saw the Thames in the distance through the office buildings. This whole situation felt so impossible–a murderous water elemental on the loose could throw suspicion on Sherlock.

He was not one to go around stereotyping people, but the typical water elemental had unusual intelligence; in the way the usual fire elemental had "enhanced proprioception," to quote Sherlock's phrase. John had always meant to Google "proprioception." One day or another.

Sherlock had to poke John when they reached the lab, and John jumped, startled.

"We're here," Sherlock said unnecessarily.

John rolled his eyes and got out of the car, following Sherlock into St. Bart's. He yawned widely in the elevator on the way down and wished he had a cup of coffee.

"So, what've you found out, Molly?" Sherlock asked, striding into Molly's lab and stopping short just a foot into the room. John almost ran into him.

"Sherlock, this is Jimmy!" Molly beamed at them both.

A man leaned on one of Molly's lab tables, and he waved at Sherlock and John. He too smiled, and got up to shake their hands. "Molly's told me so much about you," he said, smile faltering a bit when Sherlock gave his hand a cold, unwelcoming glare.

"Nice to meet you, Jimmy," John cut in, shaking the other man's hand warmly.

"He works in IT upstairs. That's how we met; office romance." Molly

"That's great. So you brought us here to meet your boyfriend...?" John asked, feeling a bit awkward.

Molly said quickly, "Oh no, he was just here–"

"You on one of your cases?" Jimmy asked Sherlock politely.

Sherlock took one appraising look at Jimmy and commented to himself,"Gay," clearly not intending for anyone to hear.

Molly's smile vanished. "What?"

Sherlock looked up at Molly and realized what he'd just done. "Um, hey," he said awkwardly to Jimmy.

"Hey," Jimmy said, accidentally putting his hand down on a metal dish. It fell off the table, and Jimmy scrambled to pick it up. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered.

John facepalmed and made a mental note to have a talk with Sherlock about what to never say about Molly's boyfriends. Again.

"Well, I'd better be off," Jimmy said in the intervening silence. "See you at the Fox, about sixish?" he asked Molly hopefully.

"Yeah, course!" she said cheerfully.

Jimmy rested his hand on Molly's back for a moment. "Bye."

"Bye," Molly responded, not noticing the lingering look Jimmy gave Sherlock as he left.

"Nice to meet you," Jimmy said to Sherlock.

The consulting detective didn't answer, and John had to jump in again. "Nice to meet you too," he said as the door to the lab closed.

"What do you mean he's gay?" Molly demanded as soon as Jimmy was out of earshot. "We're together."

Sherlock gave Molly a look. "Domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I saw you last."

She glared at him. "Two and a half."

"Nuh. Three," Sherlock said brusquely.

"Sherlock..." John warned. Sherlock was either oblivious to the atmosphere in the room, or he just didn't care.

"He isn't gay," Molly insisted. "Why do you have to spoil– he's not!"

Sherlock snorted in derision. "With that level of personal grooming? Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes... and then there's his underwear."

"His what?" Shock spread slowly across Molly's features.

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible, very particular brand," Sherlock added. "And the extremely suggestive fact that he left his number under the dish over here..." The detective lifted up the edge of the dish Jimmy had dropped and pulled out a piece of paper with a telephone number scribbled on it. "I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly stared at him in horror for a moment, and then turned her back on him. "The report's over by the door. Take it and leave," she spat at Sherlock. "Don't bother thanking me. You've done enough."

"Molly," Sherlock began to say.

"Don't–just don't," she said coldly, not bothering to turn around.

"I'm... sorry," Sherlock apologized, voice uncharacteristically soft. Then he picked up Molly's report and started to leave.

"John, wait!" Molly chased after them and added, "I was going to give you and Sherlock this. It was in Meyers's pocket." She shoved something into John's hands and then slammed the door behind them.

"Charming. Well done," John sighed. He glanced down at the heavy blue thing in his hand and stuck it into his pocket, striding down the hall and leaving Sherlock to follow.

The consulting detective didn't seem to understand the previous exchange with Molly, or why she was so upset. "I was just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" he asked John.

"Kinder? No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind," John said sadly. He called the lift and sighed heavily again.

"Well, what did she give you?" Sherlock asked at length.

"Oh, right, that..." John fished around into his pocket and pulled the item out just as the lift arrived and the doors opened.

Sherlock pressed the ground level button, wordlessly holding out his hand.

John stared at the object in mute confusion. "Sherlock...?"

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded, but he closed his mouth when he saw what lay in John's hand.

The elevator chose that precise moment to open its doors, and they hastened into St. Bart's main foyer to better see the object.

A smooth, rounded sapphire lay heavily on John's palm, and it was the bluest blue either of them had ever seen. It almost glowed in the soft afternoon light, percolating through the foyer windows.

"A calling card," Sherlock conjectured aloud, picking the jewel up and holding it to the light. Then he smiled. "Beautiful."

"What?" John took the sapphire back and looked at it closer. Etched in small silver letters on the surface of the gem were the words:

_River King_

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"I've got absolutely no idea." Sherlock beamed cheerfully and pulled his coat collar up. "How exciting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery continues! Thanks for reading, and don't forget to review! I'll write faster if you do.
> 
> (Milverton is the canon last name for Charles Augustus Magnussen, in case you were wondering. And I hated Molly's reaction to Sherlock being a jerk in the series, so I changed that. It's her lab, so why does Sherlock get to chase her out of it? Geez.)


	3. The Blue Problem, Part III

John opened the refrigerator door and immediately yelled, “Sherlock!”

“What is it, John?” the detective shouted back. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

After they’d returned from Molly’s lab, Lestrade had confiscated the sapphire from Sherlock and given it right back to Molly for further investigation, failing spectacularly to see the irony in this. Apparently, the DI felt that the “actual” scientists would find out more than Sherlock. And it would look better for Scotland Yard, having the letters _PhD_ after the scientist's name. Sherlock spent the rest of the day moping like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away.

John desperately needed a cup of tea by the time they returned to 221B, and to his eternal disappointment found that Sherlock had used the last of the milk. For a science project.

"I told you to go buy more yesterday!" John complained.

"John, I _never_ get the milk. That's Mrs. Hudson's job, isn't it?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Not your housekeeper!" the landlady reminded them from downstairs. “So don’t think I’ll get it for you today!”

John rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll have to get it, then,” he complained, giving Sherlock a meaningful look. “Just like I always get it. Whenever we run out. Which is often.”

“Well, off you go,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, and he waved John off, returning his attention to his laptop.

John stomped off to get his jacket. “Bloody Sherlock can’t get off his bloody arse to do a single bloody thing...” he muttered to himself, slamming the door behind him as he left.

Outside, the cool autumn air drifted through the city, carrying crunchy brown leaves with it. John didn't bother to call a cab—it was, after all, a very nice day.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled down the sidewalk in the direction of the corner store.

* * *

“John!” Sherlock yelled for the thousandth time. “Jaaaaaaaaaawn!”

Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, “What's going on up there, Sherlock?”

“It's eight-thirty, and John still hasn't come back from the grocery,” Sherlock said, mostly to himself. “Either that or I just didn't notice that he came back...”

Usually, this was when John would make some offhand comment that made Sherlock remember something very important, but instead Sherlock ended up staring at Billy the skull for a full fifteen minutes. He didn't remember anything particularly earth-shattering.

Silence was a poor companion.

* * *

“John Hamish Watson,” a voice with a very strong Dublin accent drawled.

His ears rang faintly, and John had to blink a few times to clear his eyes. A bright light shone on him from above in the mockery of a spotlight.

“Who—who're you?” he asked, licking his dry lips.

The voice didn't respond, but footsteps approached John from behind, clacking on the floor.

“Why am I...”

A hand slid over John's mouth almost seductively. “It wouldn't matter to you. This is a game between elementals.”

And John almost smiled. There was his ace in the hole. Whoever this person was, he'd realize soon that if you played with fire, you got burnt.

“You don't seem surprised,” the other man murmured in John's ear. He abruptly drew away, circling around in front of John's chair.

“You're Moriarty," John accused, twisting at the zip ties binding him to the chair.

“I hope your boyfriend comes to get you soon, John.” Moriarty sat down in John's lap and stared at his nails. “I know he got my number.”

Molly's boyfriend Jimmy, John thought in sudden horror. Moriarty and Molly?

“I honestly don't know why he's fighting against me,” Moriarty sighed, tracing one finger lazily along the side of John's face. “It's not like those scientists were blameless.”

“That isn't the point,” John protested.

Moriarty smiled as if John had gotten the answer to a particularly tricky question. “It's about the game. The only game, really.”

And then Moriarty's phone began to ring. “Hello?” Moriarty turned on the speakerphone, a bright smile on his face.

“You have my blogger,” Sherlock said without preamble, voice cold and harsh.

“SH—” John tried to yell, but Moriarty covered his mouth again.

“ _Your_ blogger?” Moriarty giggled. “Tell you what, Sherl. Come and get him.” And he hung up the phone.

* * *

_HELP. BAKER STREET. NOW. HELP ME. PLEASE_ , Sherlock texted to Lestrade mere seconds after Moriarty hung up. Then he went into the kitchen and sat by the refrigerator, waiting.

Lestrade burst into the flat under five minutes later, and Sherlock could hear the thump and whoosh of helicopter blades outside the window. Sirens blared down Baker Street.

“What's going on?” Lestrade demanded. “Sherlock?”

“John went out to get milk, and he isn't back yet,” Sherlock explained. “It's eight thirty-seven.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock in mute disbelief.

“He left at four,” Sherlock added. And in case the finer points of mathematics had escaped the DI, he said, “That was four and a half hours ago.”

“What? You called me here because your boyfriend is late?” Lestrade growled furiously.

“Four and a half hours. John is never that late; he always buys milk at the store two and a half blocks from here, and that’s a twenty minute trip tops,” Sherlock tried to explain a bit more clearly.

Lestrade sighed. “Well, I’m sure one of the twenty cop cars I have outside saw him wandering around downtown London or something...”

Sherlock picked up his phone and showed it to Lestrade. “Guess who I called. He left his number at Molly’s lab, but I didn’t recognize his face.”

“Mori—why didn’t you say that _sooner_? Priorities! You cryptic bastard...” Lestrade sighed again, running a hand through his silvery grey hair.

“Oh, I didn’t say that?” Sherlock fiddled with the phone in his hands and started to pace around the room, eyes flicking from Billy the skull to Lestrade and back. “Send Donovan and Anderson back to Scotland Yard. You know, send back everyone whose IQ is less than a hundred.  That'll be roughly half the force, I expect...”

He pulled on his coat and scarf hastily, and marched out of the flat with Lestrade in tow.

“And the corner store is... that way...” Sherlock muttered to himself. He glanced back at Lestrade and wished he'd brought the skull. At least it would have been better company.

* * *

John could hit a soda can from a mile away, if the wind was right. But he couldn't burn through a zip tie? John tried to keep his face neutral even though he wanted to set everything on fire. The heat never bothered him anyway.

Moriarty didn't seem to realize that John was a fire elemental, which struck John as unusual. He knew that elementals of the same kind could tell at a moment's notice, but he didn't know about different elements.

Moriarty had a smirk on his face, both feet kicked up on the table in front of John; he'd procured his own chair, to John's immense relief.

The zip tie was starting to smell a bit like burning plastic. John knew next to nothing about Moriarty and how he'd been trained in the past.

And there was the matter of water. Wherever this place was, it couldn't be too far from the Thames. Faint watermarks stained the ceiling, and other patches dripped water onto the stone floor of the room.

Without Moriarty two inches from his face, John could get a better sense of where he was. It looked almost like part of the London Underground.

Moriarty checked his watch conspicuously, a fake yawn splitting his mouth.

“Why am I here, if you just want Sherlock to find me?” John asked when he'd finally worked up the courage.

The other man just smiled heartlessly. “You'll figure it out soon enough.”

* * *

Sherlock reached out and snatched the blue gem from where it was hidden in the stone wall before Lestrade even realized it was there.

“ _River King_ ,” Sherlock growled, startling the DI.

“Excuse me?”

“Moriarty was here, just minutes from the flat. He must've taken John somewhere along this street...” Sherlock started pacing in circles, thinking intently, the sapphire cradled in his hands. Then he stared down at it in shock. “This is the Stuart Sapphire.”

Lestrade craned his neck to get a better view. “Isn’t that part of the crown jewels?”

“Then the one Molly has must be St. Edward’s Sapphire.” Sherlock jumped up and let the precious sapphire fall to the ground. “The Tower of London, of course!”

“Hey, careful with that! It belongs to the Queen.” Lestrade scooped the gem off the ground and rubbed it off on his jacket. “You were saying?”

Sherlock suppressed an exasperated sigh. “They’re clues. The sapphires, with the words River King engraved on them. We found one earlier, remember? And they’re all from the Tower of London... it’s not much to go on, but why else would Moriarty have gone through the trouble? Getting the jewels and just throwing them away?”

Lestrade grinned and said, “Well, looks like we're breaking John out of prison.”

* * *

John clenched his hands, still trying to focus more heat on the zip ties. He was sure Moriarty would smell the plastic and kill him without a second thought any moment now.

“Maybe I should have dumbed down the puzzle a bit more,” Moriarty drawled. “Our dear Sherlock _is_ taking... _awhile_.”

“Sherlock is a thousand times more clever than you'll ever be,” John shot back without thinking.

This just made Moriarty beam, the kind of crazy smile that Sherlock got when he knew something no one else did.

John grit his teeth, pulling at the melting plastic and trying to keep the action inconspicuous.

Suddenly, Moriarty turned his cold, dead gaze on John. “Plastic,” he murmured quietly, reaching one hand towards the wall.

In a split second, John had flung the still-melting-hot plastic at Moriarty and scrambled back from the table.

“My dear Watson!” Moriarty cried with horrific delight. “You're elemental!” The plastic had seared the side of his face, but he didn't seem to notice or care. Water surged from the side of the cavern, flowing around Moriarty like a cape. “Looks like Sherlock will have to wait.”

John sent a huge semicircle of flame at Moriarty, who brought his arm in front of his face and blocked with a wave of water.

In the two seconds he'd gained, John ran for the exit. It was a metal door set to the left of Moriarty, and it was locked. John swore and pressed his hands to the lock, knowing it would take at least a minute to melt the metal. Moriarty had clearly trained with his powers, while John had spent his life hiding them.

A wall of cold river water smashed into John and spun him away from the door. “Now, now, none of that,” Moriarty scolded.

John let out a yell and _burned_ , feeling the soft lick of flames against his skin. He’d forgotten the rush of power that came with the fire, and for a second he thought he knew how emperors felt.  

“Mmm, you're just like my Sebastian,” Moriarty hummed delightedly. “Maybe I'll keep you.”

“Don’t you know Moran’s still alive?” John asked, trying to stall Moriarty as he inched back towards the door. The air was starting to smell like ozone.

“Nice try.” The water elemental spread his arms out, head tilted back, and the river burst through the cavern wall.

* * *

“I know it's not the regular tourist hours, but this is a matter of _national importance_!” Sherlock yelled, slamming his fist down on the visitor's desk. “I have no time to bandy words with a mentally incompetent tourist guide!”

Lestrade grit his teeth. “I'm so sorry,” he began.

The floor underneath them rumbled, and Sherlock's gaze magnetized to the window. “John,” he whispered, just a hint of fear creeping into his voice.

Lestrade didn't stop him from leaving.

The consulting detective bolted from the Tower and ran as fast as he could for the river, scarf trailing behind him in a ribbon of blue.

Without a moment's hesitation, he dove into the river. The cool water brushed against his face, welcoming, but he paid it no mind.

A hole had opened in the depths of the Thames, and Sherlock swam towards it. He could feel a strange sort of glow coming from the cave it led to, and he couldn't quite put it into words. It felt like the soft whisper of water, raindrops on tin roofs and streams in forests.

How distracting.

* * *

John pushed all the heat he could muster into the door, feeling the hardened steel soften and turn red-hot under his touch. The water hit him like a brick wall, hissing and sizzling on his skin.

He took a huge breath and felt the water around him bubbling with heat. John ripped into the door’s lock, and strands of molten steel clung to his fingers, warm and sticky like caramel.

The heat around him seemed to fade just as the door moved under his touch, the water pouring through the door and the hallway behind it.

John hit Lestrade full force, surprising the DI and sending them both crashing backwards with the river.

Lestrade spluttered and said, “Nice to see you too.”

John turned a light shade of pink and hurriedly extricated himself from their tangle of arms and legs.

Sherlock strode into the room moments later, coat billowing behind him. “He’s gone,” he said, a look of uncertainty flitting across his face. In his hands, he held an enormous clear stone that cast tiny rainbows on the walls, shimmering in the faint light.

“Is that a diamond?” John’s hand brushed against Sherlock’s, and the detective jerked back like he’d been burned.

Which he had.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” John apologized, hands reflexively reaching out to soothe the burn and pulling back just as quickly.

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock reassured him, reaching one hand out behind him for water. He smoothed it over the burn and quickly returned his attention to the diamond, which had Lestrade fascinated.

“That’s... that’s the Koh-i-Noor diamond, Sherlock,” he stuttered, pointing at the enormous stone. “Do you know how much that’s worth?”

“Well, I suspect it’ll be worth a great deal less now that it’s been vandalized by Moriarty.” Sherlock held the stone up to the light so they could see the words etched deep into the surface of the diamond.

_River King_

“What does that even mean?” Lestrade demanded. “Who is this River King?”

“You have to ask?” Sherlock sighed and pushed past Lestrade and the growing crowd of people in the hallway. “What are you waiting for, John?”

“Right. ‘Scuse me,” John said, following Sherlock and nudging some more people out of the way. “Sorry.”

“We'll have to call Molly. Maybe she can help us...” Sherlock trailed off, staring at the pink iPhone in his hand. The other cradled the enormous diamond, which still sparkled and shone like white fire.

“Hmm?” John asked. He peered over Sherlock's shoulder with some difficulty. “What does that mean?”

Lestrade finally caught up to them and asked, since it appeared no one else would, “Why is that written in gibberish?”

“Molly,” Sherlock said, and then he grabbed John and ran out of the Tower of London. “It was all a plot!” Sherlock explained to John while he hurriedly flagged down a cab. “Moriarty knew I’d waste no time—”

“No time? You were four hours late—!”

“—in rescuing you. And he knew I’d call in Lestrade. You were a distraction.” Sherlock read out the text he’d received from Moriarty. “ _Gotcha_.”

“How do you know that means Molly?” John asked as they climbed into the cab. “What does that even mean?”

“All of this was just an elaborate façade. The jewels, capturing you. He wanted to distract me.” Sherlock looked furious with himself. “He has some larger scheme in mind.”

John still felt like he was missing a piece or four from the puzzle. “Which involves...?”

“Of all the ways to get his number to me, he picks dating Molly? There are surely far easier methods to choose.” Sherlock sighed, ruffling his hair with one hand, and picked up his phone again.

* * *

 Molly’s ringtone sounded entirely out of place in the dark, gloomy recesses of the underground station. The sound echoed across the walls and came back as a cheerless dirge.

The answer phone came on.

“Molly, listen... I’m really, truly sorry about what happened today. Yesterday. It’s one in the morning. I should... never have said those things I did. I hope you can forgive me.” Click.

“Aww, look at that, Molly. He really does like you. I just hope he likes you enough to care if you die,” Moriarty said cheerfully.

* * *

“Molly?” Sherlock asked hopefully. The lab seemed empty, even with all of the lights still on.

John went down to look for her in the morgue while Sherlock looked in the upstairs labs. The chilly, dry air cut right through John’s sweater, and he decided to risk a light. A single lick of fire flickered in the palm of his hand like a candle, casting sharp shadows against the metal walls of the morgue.

“Molly?”

A glint of rainbow light caught John’s eye, and his heart sank at the sight of another priceless gem. He knew without looking the two words carved into its surface.

“The Great Star of Africa,” Sherlock said somewhat bitterly when John showed him the diamond. “That was in rather poor taste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So didn't forget to cross-post this, what're you talking about? *laughs nervously* 
> 
> Chapter Four is in the works :D


	4. Wanderlust, Part I

Chapter Three:  _Wanderlust, Part I_

"Sherlock, I want to sleep. I don't know about you, but I've had one hell of a day. I'd love to help Molly, but I can't until after at least six hours of sleep," John tried to explain for the millionth time. That morning seemed an eternity away, probably because it had really been two days ago. He barely remembered what sleeping even felt like.

"You were tranquilized. That counts as sleep," Sherlock argued, unconsciously tiling the knocker off-center as he unlocked the door to 221B. "Oh, I don't have time for a case  _now,_ " he complained.

"Mycroft?" John asked. "How do you know he's even in there?"

Sherlock pushed open the door and commented, "He always straightens the knocker."

"No I don't," Mycroft said smoothly, stepping down from the staircase. He had his umbrella in hand, and John wondered if he ever let that thing out of his sight.

The consulting detective said flatly, "Whatever it is, I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft repeated, leaning forward slightly on his umbrella.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock explained, waving his hand at his brother dismissively.

"Never mind your usual trivia, this is of  _national_   _importance_ ," Mycroft replied snappishly. It amused John immensely that for once, the British government was out of the loop.

Sherlock marched up to the stairs and shoved his face in Mycroft's. "First of all, my work is not trivial. You of all people should know that. And  _Molly_  is not-" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and glared at his brother.

"Molly Hooper...?" Mycroft feigned ignorance for a moment. "Oh, the registrar from St. Bart's, I'd almost forgotten about her. You know what I always say, brother dear. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," he advised Sherlock blithely.

"Hold on,  _you_  always say that," John said to Sherlock. "You got that from  _Mycroft_?"

"It doesn't matter where it came from," Mycroft allowed before Sherlock could say anything in reply. To John, he continued, "Anthony North, known as Tony to his friends." He pulled a plain manila folder out of his coat pocket and handed it to John. "A civil servant, found dead near the mouth of the Thames this morning, drowned."

"Suicide?" John asked.

"That would seem logical," Mycroft conceded.

"But you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," Sherlock said impatiently, clearly wanting to get back into his flat. Probably to serenade Mycroft with "God Save the Queen" or some other such nonsense.

Mycroft said meaningfully, "The MOD is working on a new kind of virtual offense. Skeleton Key, it's called. Able to unlock any door, allow entrance into any system." His gaze flicked to Sherlock as John started thumbing through the folder.

"Secret, missing, unimportant," Sherlock said dismissively. "Not worth my time."

"We can't let Skeleton Key fall into the wrong hands, Sherlock. I shudder to think of the damage it could cause. You've got to find those plans. Don't make me order you," Mycroft said lightly, but his words were anything but.

Sherlock snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over." Mycroft then smiled humorlessly at John and said, "Goodbye, John. I'll see you very soon."

John tried his best to not look nervous as Mycroft brushed by him and left the hall in front of 221B. Mycroft, who John knew to be an earth elemental, had most of Britain dancing on the end of his puppet strings. And he would gladly bury his enemies under a mile of solid rock, despite his disdain for "legwork." John really didn't want to find out what that felt like.

The two of them returned gladly to the flat, and collapsed into their respective chairs with a sigh of relief. The manila folder got tossed unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, almost knocking over a beaker of something red. Sherlock took one of the sapphires out of his pocket just as John's eyelids finally started to droop closed. He was so unbelievably tired...

And then Sherlock's phone rang. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, and John wished he'd take the call somewhere else for once. Unfortunately, considerateness was not one of Sherlock's strong points.

"How could I refuse?" Sherlock got up out of his chair and said to John, "I've been summoned by Lestrade. It's about Molly. Care to join me?"

"Only if you want me to," John said politely, stifling a yawn.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, pulling on his scarf. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

A faint smile spread across John's face, and he didn't mind leaving the comfort of his favorite armchair quite so much.

* * *

In the cab, John yawned widely again and let his head rest on his chest, thinking to close his eyes for a moment or two. He must've dozed off somewhere along the line, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up with his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sorry," John mumbled, stretching and hearing his left shoulder crack. "Must've..."

"It's quite all right, John. But Lestrade  _is_  waiting for us." Sherlock let John pick himself up and fumble around for the door handle before getting out of the cab himself.

John managed a kind of zombie sleepwalk into Scotland Yard and a flappy wave to the guards at the door. Donovan took pity on him in the precinct and made him a cup of coffee, which was infinitely better than sleep.

By the time he'd been woken up enough to be properly aware of his surroundings, Sherlock had a creamy white envelope in his hands and was speaking slowly and intently to him. "I said, it's from the  _Tower of London_ ," the consulting detective repeated.

"That envelope? Oh, what's in it?" John asked.

Sherlock just sighed, and Lestrade snickered softly before explaining, "It's from the rooms under the Tower of London, where Moriarty was keeping you. They were in a bubble of water, so clearly Moriarty wanted you to find it. We x-rayed it, and it seems harmless."

Sherlock nodded and rubbed the paper between the tips of his fingers. "Bohemian. Nice quality..." He flipped it over and read his own name written neatly on the front. "She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold—iridium nib."

"She?" John inquired.

"Obviously," Sherlock said dismissively. Then he snatched a letter opener from Lestrade's desk and carefully opened the envelope, dumping its contents on the DI's table. A shower of small diamonds and sapphires skittered over the desk, scattering light across the room in multicolored motes. Nestled among them was an ordinary hospital ID bracelet, made of cheap white plastic.

Sherlock picked up the bracelet and mouthed the name to himself. "Oh, not now!" he burst out petulantly.

"What is it?!" Lestrade and John both shouted at the same time, making grabby hands for the bracelet. John won, to his immense satisfaction, elbowing the DI unceremoniously in the face.

_Irene Adler_

Lestrade snatched the bracelet from John, and his mouth formed a little  _o_  of surprise.

And then Sherlock's phone rang. Or, rather, it sighed lovingly. "You have one new message," Siri announced.

There were five short beeps, followed by one long one. The Greenwich pips, John realized. And another message appeared on the phone. It was just a cruise advertisement, depicting a ship in the middle of a sea of turquoise water.  _Boutique Travel Travel Boutique, cruises for £250 or less! Inquire within_ , the advert announced.

"And what the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade demanded. "A travel agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" The DI crossed his arms and looked in desperate need of coffee.

"It's a warning," Sherlock said distantly, clearly deep in thought.

"A warning?" John asked.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again... I've seen this ship before." He squinted at the photograph for a moment before he started striding out of Scotland Yard as fast as his long legs could carry him.

John and Lestrade hurried to catch up. "H-hang on," John said, almost tripping on a flat floor tile. "What's going to happen again?"

Sherlock turned to face them and raised his hands dramatically. "Water!"

* * *

Lestrade surveyed the port in front of them skeptically. "You know, I don't think the Yard will cover a three-person cruise to the Mediterranean. 'Specially since you aren't even in the force."

"Really, Lestrade? Don't you watch the news?" Sherlock shook his head. "Early this morning, a woman named Charlotte Shurley was found dead on board a cruise ship. This cruise ship, as a matter of fact." Sherlock gestured to the pristine white ship in front of them, with a conspicuous length of yellow caution tape running around it.

"The ship in the photograph," John recognized. "And we're here because...?"

Sherlock's pink phone began to ring. He took one glance at the blocked caller ID and put the call on speakerphone so everyone could hear.

"Hello, sexy," Irene said, as if this call were just like any other.

"Irene," Sherlock answered. He was about say something more when she continued, "I've set up a little puzzle, just to say h-hi." She let out a tiny, involuntary sob that instantly set off all Sherlock's mental alarms.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, already starting to move away from the dock.

Irene hardened her voice. "I'm not crying. I'm typing, and this... this  _stupid_   _slut_  is reading it out," she spat contemptuously. "Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or else I'm going to be very naughty."

The line went dead with a click.

"And the penny drops," Sherlock said softly.

"Was that the dominatrix on the phone?" Lestrade asked after a long moment. "The one who beat you?"

John leaned in curiously. "She beat you? Do tell." He hadn't known that was even possible. Especially not after the case with the "hounds" out in Baskerville, which ruined John from ever wanting a dog again. Except for one of the little ones, like teacup chihuahuas. Or something.

"Oh, Lestrade, how many times must I tell you that I  _let_  her win?" Sherlock replied crossly. "Beat me? Don't be ridiculous. Very few people have the resources, intelligence, or willpower."

Lestrade tried not to snicker, and John quipped, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sherlock."

"We have a case to solve, if you don't mind, John," the consulting detective said pointedly.

"All right, all right. But don't think I'm forgetting about this," John conceded. "So, where to next?"

"Her room," Sherlock replied, holding up the caution tape for him. "Assuming the police haven't mucked up all the evidence."

John ducked underneath the tape and started up the ramp connecting the ship to the dock, missing Lestrade walking full-speed into the caution tape and swearing at Sherlock halfheartedly.

The consulting detective frowned at an ice maker leaning against a nearby wall and fished around behind it for a moment. Then he pulled a set of room keys out from behind the ice maker and strode towards one of the lower decks. "Room 207," he muttered.

"How are you so sure that's hers?" Lestrade asked. "You just found it behind an ice-maker. It could be anyone's."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Do I have to do everything for you? Her room was locked. There were two keys, one in her room, and one that she brought with her when she left the room."  
"So wasn't the other key be with her body?" John wondered out loud.

"No, of course not. They found her body, no key." Sherlock held up the room key he'd found. "Hence..."

They rounded a corner and almost crashed right into Donovan. "What are  _you_  doing here?" she demanded sharply.

"Investigating a case, of course," Sherlock replied smoothly, stepping around Donovan and into the room. He dropped the room key on the nightstand, and Anderson glared and was probably about to make some comment about the integrity of the crime scene. "Where's the body?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Gone, cleared it out before you got here," Donovan answered. "Go ask Molly if you want to know more."

Lestrade jumped into the conversation before Sherlock could say anything too abrasive. "Listen, Sally, Phillip, can I talk to you outside?"

" _Phillip_?" Sherlock asked John, a confused look flashing across his face.

"Anderson. His first name is Phillip," John clarified.

"Ah." Sherlock started scanning the room from floor to ceiling, hands clasped behind his back.

"You just deleted that from your mind palace, didn't you?" John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock answered frankly, "Of course."

" _What_  happened to Molly?!" Donovan shrieked in the hallway.

Sherlock opened one of the side tables' drawers and pulled out a piece of paper, folded neatly in half. The paper bore the heading " _Boutique Travel Travel Boutique; travel cheap, travel well_!" and had written on it, " _Room 207_." Sherlock gave the paper to John and left the room only to stare at the door intently.

"Did you find something?" John looked at the door too, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Presumably, Sherlock had already deduced next week's lottery numbers out of the wood grain.

"Look at the lock, John. It's scratched. Why not just ask the captain, or whoever's in charge around here, for another key? If you'd lost yours behind an ice maker?" Sherlock frowned and said to Donovan, "Did you find anything unusual inside the room?"

"We're shipping it all back to her parents," Anderson answered. "It was just a bunch of suitcases, but if you wanted to see them, they're being loaded into one of the–"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said brusquely, and he left the room without another word.

John scooted out the door and said to Anderson, "He hasn't slept in days. Does things to his manners."

"Yeah, he's usually ruder," Anderson commented.

John let out a short laugh and followed Sherlock back onto the dock to find the detective giving one of his intense stares to an open suitcase, phone in one hand.

"Her clothes," Sherlock muttered. "The room. They don't match."

"What about them?" John asked, staring at the woman's suitcase in confusion. "They're just clothes."

Sherlock frowned. "They're old and cheap, washed too many times. But this ship, her room, it was all expensive. Out of her price range."

"So? Maybe someone bought her a ticket for her birthday or something," John suggested.

The detective huffed and started dialing a number from memory. "Is this  _Boutique Travel Travel Boutique_? I understand a client of yours, Charlotte Shurley–" He stopped and looked disgruntled. "She hung up on me."

"One of her clients did get murdered," John said. "It's understandable that she might not want to talk about it."

"She hung up too fast for it to be that simple. Something to hide? Either that or she just remembered something in the oven, that happened once." Sherlock paused for a moment and then started emptying the suitcase, tossing articles of clothing over his shoulder. "There has to be some other element... aha!" He dumped a load of t-shirts into John's arms and pulled away a compartment in the suitcase. "She was being paid."

"Oh, don't tell me," John sighed. "It's another bloody enormous diamond. Or is it an emerald this time?"

"Guess again," Sherlock said, an odd smile on his face.

"Severed head? Bar of gold? Contraband weapons?" John craned his neck to see inside the suitcase. "Oh."

It was, in fact, a matched set of plaster monkey statuettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! There were delays on both the writing and beta-editing fronts :\ And if you recognized the premise, then you are AWESOME because that is the BEST SHOW EVER and I THINK I LOVE YOU.  
> If you want updates that are actually on time, you should probably [read this on ff.n](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10180345/1/River-King)
> 
> Don't forget to drop your writer a review, please :3


	5. Wanderlust, Part II

“What the...?” John stared blankly at the plaster monkeys. “Are those...?”

Sherlock paid him no mind, picking up the left-hand one. Then he frowned and began tossing it from one hand to the other, regardless of the fact that it was plaster, and it could break if dropped.

“Sherlock, be careful,” John reminded him.

To his perpetual horror, the detective smashed the little figurine to the ground.

“What have you—?!” John exclaimed. “I thought you hated people tampering with evidence, and now look what you’ve done.”

“It was too heavy to be entirely plaster,” Sherlock explained to John as he rummaged through the remains of the figurine. “Aha!”

“Sherlock, what is that?” John stared at the piece of golden crystal, still dusty with plaster. Cut into a vague circle shape, the stone was almost the size of an egg, and it glittered in the midmorning sun like a diamond.

The detective held the jewel up to the light. “ _Storm King_ ,” he read aloud, handing the crystal to John before picking up the second statuette.

Whatever the golden crystal was, someone had taken the time to painstakingly carve in swirling symbols on its surface, bracketing the words “ _Storm King_ ” in an elegant frame.

“Hold on a minute,” John said. “Hold on, that's impossible. Those are just a legend.”

Sherlock actually smiled. “Not anymore.” And he smashed the second statuette to the ground.

“What's all this commotion?” Lestrade asked, footsteps approaching around the bend.

Sherlock swiftly snatched the Storm jewel from John's hands and shoved it into his pocket. “Looking for evidence,” he explained, rummaging around in the second figurine's broken plaster. “Hmm... payment, for services rendered.” Sherlock held up a clear gem exactly like the one in his pocket.

“How do you know that wasn't the package? And where did you even find... What are those?” Lestrade demanded.

“Monkey statuettes,” Sherlock explained.

Lestrade's phone began to ring. “Hello? Well, I'm—oh.”

“Oh what?” John asked. His hands already missed the coolness and weight of the Storm jewel.

“Go on,” Lestrade said to the person on the other side of the phone. “Okay. Thanks.” Turning back to the both of them, he sighed and ruffled his salt-and-pepper grey hair. “It turns out that the murdered woman was a registered water elemental.”

“What? Why would anyone ever...?” John looked around and lowered his voice self-consciously. “I mean... it’s just a gateway to discrimination.”

Sherlock’s hand slipped into his pocket unconsciously.

“Her family just called the station. Apparently, none of them knew she’d gone on a cruise.” Lestrade frowned down at the shattered ceramics on the pavement. “I’ll have Charlene call them back and ask if they knew about these... things.”

“Of course they didn’t. Why else would they be hidden in the lining of her suitcase?” Sherlock snapped impatiently. He tossed the clear gem to Lestrade and said, “Someone was paying her to carry a package. That much is obvious.”

“And where is this package?” Lestrade inquired pointedly.

“Her murderer most likely has it. Or the janitor,” Sherlock added after a moment’s thought. John would’ve believed him if he hadn’t known that the actual package was right in Sherlock’s coat pocket.

“So, did we solve it?” John ventured to break the silence. “The case?”

Sherlock started pacing back and forth, both hands in his pockets. “We still don’t know who murdered Charlotte Shurley, but we know why. She had a package, presumably for...” His head whipped up. “How did she pay for the cruise?” he asked intently. “Come on, John. We’re going to a travel boutique.”

...

“I still think we should’ve let Lestrade come,” John said after awhile.

“Lestrade is a terrible conductor of light. I wouldn't be able to think a single clear thought with him here,” Sherlock answered snappishly. “And he would have thrown a monkey wrench into my plans.”

The cab driver pulled up next to the curb, in front of an old office building. “Are you sure this is where you’re headed?” he asked.

“Yes, very.” Sherlock jumped out of the cab and left John to count out the fare. He paused outside the office’s front doors just to give his hair one last ruffle.

By the time the change had been counted, Sherlock was inside, chatting up the sales associate. “Oh, here he is now,” the detective said with a beam. John hated this particular front of Sherlock’s the most, the one where he pretended to be sociable and friendly. The false sweetness made his teeth ache.

“Hello,” John said amiably, waving to the woman at the desk.

“You know,” Sherlock commented almost offhandedly, “My fiancée and I would love to go on a cruise, but we just don’t have the funds to do it. I heard you offered cruises for £250 or less, and we’re very interested.”

While John was busy trying not to die of shock, holding back the urge to reassert his heterosexuality as he normally did, the sales associate brightened considerably. “That’s so adorable,” she cooed. “You’re a very cute couple. I’m sure Mark and I could help you out. Let me run back and get him.” She smiled cheerfully and went into the back office.

“Fiancée?” John looked momentarily confused. “But I’m not–”

Sherlock waved him off and inched closer to the back office. John could hear the faint voice of the sales associate saying, “I’m sure they’d do nicely.”

They both jumped back and tried to look innocent when the sales associate returned with her manager. “Well, we found one for you two. You’ll just have to talk with Mark in the back room.”

Sherlock smiled and looped his arm through John’s. “That sounds marvelous,” he said warmly.

John copied Sherlock’s grin and tried to look in love with the detective. It would have surprised few to see his expression mostly unchanged. “Well, what’re we waiting for?”

Mark led them back into a room painted taupe and ochre, with broken white shades on the windows. “Ignore the mess, we’re moving offices,” he explained hurriedly. “Alright, I assume you two are nice, respectable men.”

“Of course we are,” John said before Sherlock could echo the sentiment. The detective’s deep voice made it impossible to say that sentence without seeming not-respectable.

“Well, there’s a very nice cruise to Bali leaving in three weeks, only £235. However...” Mark went over to one of the filing cabinets and pulled out a small package. “You’ll need to take this with you. You’ll know who wants this.”

“Hold on,” Sherlock said, “Is this smuggling? We aren’t smugglers.”

“That’s what the last girl said,” Mark replied smoothly. “What you’re transporting, it’s not illegal, just... difficult to move from place to place.”

Sherlock took the package and unwrapped it, ignoring Mark’s cries of protest. “Jewel smugglers!” he cried triumphantly.

Mark seemed to see them with new eyes. “Hold on, I know you! You’re that detective!” he accused. “Wait, are you really dating him?”

“No, of course not. He was the only person I had on hand. Who asked you to deliver the jewel Charlotte Shurley had? Why?” Sherlock demanded, pinning Mark against a wall with one arm.

“What’s it to you?” Mark spat, trying to push the detective away and failing.

“Who?” Sherlock asked again, softly. His eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light. “I need a name.”

“That gem wasn’t anything special. Just a yellow topaz. Some woman in Israel wanted it,” Mark gasped as Sherlock pushed down on his throat. “Dunno why. She was willing to pay for it, though. And wait for someone willing to carry it to Israel.”

Sherlock said to John, “Call Lestrade. This man’s gem smuggling days are over.” He expertly twisted Mark’s arm behind his back and reached into his coat pocket with his free hand. “This is more precious than you could possibly imagine,” Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself.

Sighing, John came around and punched Mark in the face before something stupid happened. He’d seen that episode of Game of Thrones. “And give me that,” he snapped, trying to take the jewel from Sherlock’s pocket. “What’s with your weird obsession with it, anyway?”

Sherlock slapped his hand away absently. “Call Lestrade, and then we can get out of here.”

“You know something,” John said, “about the jewel.” He pulled out his phone and started dialing Lestrade’s number. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ll go subdue the sales associate before she escapes,” Sherlock said, marching out of the ochre-themed office before John could get in another word.

 

Lestrade crossed his arms. “So, who wanted this jewel?”

“Never saw her face,” Mark said stiffly. “And I didn’t ask questions.”

Sherlock’s gaze bored into the back of the man’s head. Combined with Lestrade’s deadly single raised eyebrow, the poor man never stood a chance. John waited patiently, leaning against the door.

“Her name was Adler,” he conceded at last. “That’s all I ever knew.”

“Sherlock, can I see you outside?” Lestrade asked, standing up from the table and giving the detective a pointed look. “John, you come too.”

The DI closed the door behind them and demanded, “How long have you known?”

“Known what?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“That your friend the dominatrix wanted this jewel,” Lestrade accused.

In the same perfectly innocent tone of voice, he replied, “I just found out.”

Lestrade gave the same single-eyebrow-raised glare to Sherlock that he’d given to Mark. “And you honestly expect me to believe that? You only _just_ found that out?”

“Well, he just _confirmed_ it,” Sherlock amended, something fierce and rebellious in his voice.

“What's up with you?” John demanded impatiently. “Mouthing off all the time.”

“Nothing's _up_ , John. You’re imagining things again,” Sherlock snapped, one hand slipping into his coat pocket.

“Do I need to do another drugs bust?” Lestrade asked, stepping in between them, “Because I know Anderson's dying to find out what's in your refrigerator.”

Sherlock made a dissatisfied face, nose wrinkled. “Of course not, Lestrade. I don’t even smoke.” He rolled up his sleeve to show two nicotine patches on his pale skin.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade replied, pushing up his sleeve too.

“Am I the only non-smoker in here?” John sighed, mostly to himself.

“Listen, Sherlock, I don’t know what’s up with you, but you’ve got to sort it out quick. My team can’t stand you as it is,” Lestrade said finally. “And half of them are dying for an excuse to search your flat again.”

John shot a glance at Sherlock, who didn’t seem to be fazed by this. “We have to close this case, then,” Sherlock remarked. “Seeing as the most natural person to question next happens to be in Moriarty’s custody.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock an unamused glare just as the detective’s phone began to sigh lovingly.  

“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered. Something in Sherlock’s face seemed to change, and he instantly said, “It was Irene. She wanted a specific topaz, one worth killing over. Charlotte Shurley, who only wanted to see the world.”

There was a long, silent pause. “...the Storm jewel,” Sherlock said softly. “And it's right here, in my pocket.”

John could have sworn he heard Moriarty smile through the phone.

...

“He withheld evidence! Dangerous evidence!” Lestrade protested. “I can't just let him go.”

“Greg,” Mycroft said, attempting to foster closeness with the DI by using his given name. “This is Sherlock we're talking about. He's no use to London while imprisoned, and you know I can’t spare the time to assist you on those... cases of yours.”

Lestrade sighed and flopped against the suede seats of Mycroft's car. “And I suppose you want what he stole on top of letting Sherlock go. The Storm jewel, was it?”

“Of course. It's hardly the property of regular humans such as yourself,” Mycroft asserted. “It's useless to you anyhow.”

“What does it even do?” Lestrade asked. “Why would someone kill to get it? It's a bloody topaz. It isn’t even that nice.”

Mycroft motioned for Anthea to stop the car. “Understand this.” He opened the door and pulled Lestrade out, holding one of the DI's hands in his. “Do you see this river?” The civil servant motioned to the entirety of the Thames with a sweep of the hand not holding Lestrade's.

“What about it?” Lestrade ruffled his hair with his free hand a bit nervously.

“With the River jewel, my brother could raise the Thames and drown this city with a wave of his hand. He could set new currents in the seas and cause a global catastrophe.” Mycroft dropped Lestrade's hand and faced away from the DI. “If I had the Earth jewel, I could have the world at its knees in a heartbeat. If I wanted. Any elemental with access to a jewel, particularly one who was already powerful, would be able to use this power. On a whim, for vengeance, justice... And we can't have that, can we?”

“Of course not, Myc,” Lestrade replied without thinking.

But Mycroft didn’t protest the use of his nickname. “The jewel will be safer with me,” was all he said.

“What about what happened to Sherlock when he had the Storm jewel? You saw how aggressive he was,” Lestrade pointed out. “I don’t want anyone to have it. I’d rather throw it into a volcano.” It went unspoken that he especially didn’t want Mycroft to have it.

“It’s a lesser known fact that air and water are complementary elements,” Mycroft said delicately, stepping back into his car and motioning for Anthea to resume driving. “Therefore the effects of the Storm jewel were amplified, perhaps granting him some increased power. But, if you’ve read any books at all, you’ll have realized that power corrupts.”

“Yeah, I read Fahrenheit-451,” Lestrade said, affronted. “Once I even picked up 1984.”

An almost-smile spread across Mycroft’s face for an instant. “In the case of most elementals, the feeling of all this new power is exhilarating. Most become reckless and pugnacious–more inclined to fight,” he clarified for Lestrade. “However, since fire and earth are complementary, I will not be affected by its power.”

“Will you still want it, the same way Sherlock did?” Lestrade asked finally. “You saw on the CCTV how protective he was of the jewel.”

“Greg, have you read by any chance _The Silmarillion_ , by J. R. R. Tolkien?” Mycroft inquired instead of giving a straight answer.

“No...” Lestrade said cautiously.

Mycroft sighed. “So few read real literature these days. And I suppose you also do not know the story of Fëanor.”

“The story of _who_?”

“Whom,” Mycroft corrected automatically. “He was an elf who created three Silmarils, which were so beautiful even the gods coveted them. But they brought him nothing but strife and death,” he explained as briefly as he could manage.

“Are you trying to tell me that an elf from another world made these elemental jewels?” Lestrade asked, mostly to lighten the mood.

But Mycroft just looked tired, and Anthea rolled her eyes at them both from the driver’s seat. “It's just a metaphor. No one really knows where they came from. But once you have a jewel in your power, you never want to give it up.” Mycroft amended swiftly, “If the element matches or is complementary to your own. Which is why Anthea and I will be quite safe.”

“Wait, Anthea's an elemental too?!” Lestrade squeaked. He would later deny that he made any sound remotely like a small rodent, although Anthea had video evidence that she was completely willing to post on Youtube.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, affronted. “She’s earth, as am I.”

Lestrade sighed and decided to let that one go. “You'd better drop me off at NSY. People will start wondering where I've gone off to.”

“I assume you'll remember what I've asked, once you’re back,” Mycroft said, voice devoid of threat. Which, of course, meant that Lestrade had better watch his ass or risk complete and utter annihilation. Probably by earthquake.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”

Mycroft handed him a cup of coffee from a shop a few blocks down from the Yard. “In case anyone asks where you've been,” he explained.

“Now kiss,” Anthea deadpanned.

Both men flushed pink, Lestrade more so than Mycroft, hands fumbling over the coffee. “I'll see you around,” Lestrade said hastily, eager to return to Scotland Yard.

“Don't forget,” Mycroft reminded him, and Lestrade had a feeling there was more than one thing that he was supposed to remember as the black car drove off into the distance.

It took Lestrade a full thirty minutes to convince the guards to let Sherlock go without bail, and that all charges had been lifted. They didn’t seem convinced until Lestrade invoked Mycroft’s name, and then they were all too eager to comply. There were benefits to being on Mycroft's good side, although it did cost him some with Sherlock.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade said tiredly, “Let's go before something else irreparable happens.”

“Mycroft probably wants the Storm jewel as well,” Sherlock reflected rather calmly as Lestrade unlocked his cell door, paying no mind to the DI's words. “I don't want it anymore. Well, mostly.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a dark glare. “The next time you come across ancient elven jewels, give them to me. Don't just keep them. You know they're useless to me, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. You could let John hold onto them in the meantime.”

“I could,” Sherlock said, grabbing his beloved coat out of Lestrade's hands. “Where is John, anyway?”

“How am I supposed to know? I’m not his nanny,” Lestrade replied snappishly.

Sherlock scrutinized Lestrade’s cup of coffee. “Did Mycroft give that to you? I’m assuming yes, given the color of your face and the lingering odor of his offensive car and cologne still clinging to you like cobwebs.”

“Do you want to see her?” Lestrade asked at last.

“Who?” Sherlock asked absently, unconsciously tugging up his coat collar.

“She’s in your flat,” the DI added. “Irene Adler, remember?” he prompted, when that sentence failed to elicit the appropriate response.

The other man’s head snapped up. “In my...?” And then he was gone, long coat disappearing around the corner towards the front door.

Sherlock did some quick mental math and flagged down a cab, realizing that running three and a quarter miles back to the flat might seem faster at first but would have taken much longer. He tapped his foot impatiently waiting for the cab.

Safely ensconced in a black cab five minutes later, Sherlock would have let out a sigh of relief had his phone not begun to ring. He glanced down at the number and picked up reluctantly, bracing himself for shouting.

“ _William Sherlock Scott Holmes!_ ” Mycroft accused loudly.

Sherlock held the phone several feet away from his face and shouted back, “ _Henry Mycroft Sherrinford Holmes!_ Is this how we're going to start saying hello to one another now?”

“Lestrade has informed me of your actions, and I must say...” Mycroft paused for effect, as if he were taking the time to straighten his suit and tie. “I am very disappointed in you.”

“Would you have given it up to those dunces at NSY?” Sherlock demanded. “And why did Lestrade tell you that I had it? It’s no business of yours.”

“My dear brother, whatever you may—” Mycroft began.

Sherlock just laughed. “Unless you finally found yourself a goldfish?”

“That's none of your business. In any case, I'm just glad I convinced Lestrade to release you from prison without my resorting to force.” Mycroft sighed over the phone.

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock said blandly, about to hang up the phone.

“Sherlock, I do hope you remember that you are under cover as a human. Should you blow that cover... I would not be able to rescue you without endangering myself, Anthea, and John. Among others. And shade would be cast upon Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well,” Mycroft warned.

“You think I don't know that?” Sherlock demanded furiously, startling the cabbie with the intensity of his voice. He did, in fact, sound like an angsty jaguar trapped in a cello. “Goodbye, Mycroft,” he snapped, and he hung up before his brother could get in another word.

Sherlock jumped out of the cab almost before it had stopped, leaving the precise change behind on the seat. He found the door to the flat halfway open and rushed inside, almost knocking over an umbrella stand shaped like a troll’s leg. Hurriedly, he shed his coat and scarf and tossed them on the nearest table.

“Sherlock?” John started down the stairs and almost collided with the detective. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s Irene?” Sherlock asked. “I know she’s...”

“Over here!” a woman called from inside Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “And by the way, these biscuits are amazing.”

This information took a moment for John to process. “Did Moriarty let her go?” he tried to ask Sherlock, who was already down the stairs and in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.

Sherlock’s phone sighed its familiar, if embarrassing, sigh from the detective’s coat, which lay abandoned on a table. John answered without glancing at the caller ID and got the shock of his life when Molly said in his ear, “Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next case, which I **will** publish! It's in the works, I swear. Also, get ready for BAMF!Molly. So tired of those fics where she's a timid little field mouse that people walk all over. And Mycroft's name isn't Henry Mycroft Sherrinford Holmes, although Conan Doyle briefly considered "Sherrinford" for Sherlock's name, and the name is used for the third and eldest hypothetical Holmes brother. I think we're all glad he chose Sherlock for our consulting detective, though, and left Sherrinford for the fanfic writers.


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